The Mediterranean morning winds blew briskly across the dusty streets, sending a foul stench into the air. Major David Haver gingerly stepped down the street and glanced around him. The sun was just beginning to come up in the west, the first rays nearly blinding as it reflected across the ocean in the distance. As it did the full carnage of the scene in front of him became apparent. David had not expected it to be nearly so messy. The Phalangists said they would do this clean. Clean.

The operation had been a mess. From his post outside the camps David could hear the gunfire and screams but he assumed the entire time that it would be done like the operations inside the main city, with at least some excuse that the IDF could use to justify itself. He glanced around himself once more and then turned to the men of his unit behind him. The reporters will be here soon, he thought with some alarm.

"Spread out, search for survivors," he barked. "Take them to the Kuwaiti embassy. And get me the bulldozer unit."

It was September 18, 1982, five long months since the Israeli Defense Forces had invaded Lebanon. The Prime Minister's Office had duly informed the news that the reasons for invasion were strictly for Israel's security; the PLO had gotten out of control, Palestinians were planning revolution in the camps, the assassination attempt on the ambassador to Britain, and so on. David knew it was all bullshit. The PLO had become troublesome for the government because of their newfound insistence on diplomacy, and Lebanon was an easy, weak target; installing a new government more favorable to Israeli interests and less friendly to the Palestinians should have been a breeze.

And that was where the Phalange had come in. Our Christian Brothers, one of General Sharon's assistants called them. David had a muted respect for them; they were unceasingly devoted to their cause of a fascist, Christian Lebanon, while they were similarly unceasingly brutal. During the course of the last four months the Phalange had served as excellent tools on the ground to fight off the Palestinians; the IDF was able to siege Beirut and shell Beirut from the outside while the Phalange took care of the details inside. Their excesses were well known. six years prior they had laid siege to another camp, Tel al-Zaatar, and to that day no Palestinian could bear remembering that name. David grimaced. But we weren't involved then. The public is weak, they won't be able to stomach this. And what then?

David and his unit moved through the camp streets and houses, looking for signs of life. None were found. The Phalange were exceedingly good at what they did, David realized. No doubt they had benefited from the flares that the IDF had lit for them during the night in order to guide their way. Or the arms that the IDF had supplied them. David had even heard that a few of the IDF soldiers had volunteered to contribute to the operation inside Sabra and Shatila; General Sharon had apparently not disapproved of that.

After a half hour, David stopped, exasperated. Another search party joined them, neatly saluting.

"Have you found any signs of life?" David asked, an edge to his voice. The captain of the search party shook his head. David grunted in frustration. "Any arms?" Another no. "Any signs of the PLO?" No again.

David gritted his teeth. The official reason that the Phalange were ordered to enter the camp was to clear out any remnants of PLO fighters that remained; the rest had already left Lebanon. Again, bullshit. The leader of the Phalange had been assassinated the week before and they were out for blood. General Sharon was willing to grant them that, and gave them permission to "evacuate the PLO" from Sabra and Shatila the best they could, as long as they kept it quiet. The IDF would even provide support, surrounding the camps to make sure no Palestinian got out to tell the tale, providing arms, and so on.

We aren't going to be able to keep this quiet, David realized. The PLO has long gone from here. We can't justify this to the public.

"You look troubled, Jew."

The voice had come from a man sitting on a wall nearby. His legs were crossed nonchalantly and he was eagerly biting into an apple, apparently comfortable with his seat. An AK-47 was strapped across his back. The Commander of the Phalange, David realized.

"Hobeika," David stated, no trace of emotion in his voice.

"Your bulldozers work very well," Elie Hobeika said between bites, pointing towards an Israeli bulldozer humming in the distance. "They'll have this place cleaned up in no time."

"Not soon enough," David said, an edge of anger creeping through his voice. "You've gone too far this time. We can't cover this mess for you."

"For me?" Hobeika laughed, spitting out pieces of apple. "Oh, no, my friend. We wanted this. Send a message to the Palestinian scum that the Jews and Christians are not to be trifled with. Scare them into the middle of the Saudi desert where they belong and out of Lebanon." Hobeika pointed a finger at David. "Which is what you want too, of course."

David did not have the time or any particular reason to disagree. "Were there any PLO fighters left?"

Hobeika scrunched his face in mock thought. "Well, there was a lot of screaming about the PLO, though it was mostly 'We're not PLO! We're not PLO!'".

"Any survivors."

Hobeika's eyes shifted. "No, of course not."

David glared. You son of a bitch. "I'm going to ask you again. Are there any survivors?"

Hobeika threw his hands up in mock exasperation. He leapt down from the wall and dusted himself off. "Always you Israelis, with your taking and your taking. Where is the give?" He then started off down the street, with the IDF unit trailing.

They reached an open spot in the street and stopped. Hobeika began to kick the ground absently, sending up clouds of dust as he did. David was ready to tell him to stop playing games when he kicked up a hidden latch that had been covered in the dust. With a grunt he pulled it open, exposing a shaft down into the ground.

Hobeika started down the ladder, with David following. "Apparently a Palestinian family thought this would keep them safe," Hobeika said. "It didn't."

Penchant for the obvious, David thought. He reached the bottom as Hobeika pulled on a heavy metal door, its lock shattered by gunfire. David was not prepared for what was going on inside the room.

Three Phalangists stood to the side, chatting idly with each other or cleaning their weapons. In the middle was a Palestinian girl, sprawled out on all fours, her clothes missing. A Phalangist was thrusting voraciously into her, his trousers down by his boots. The girl had her eyes lips clenched shut, though a thin squeal escaped her teeth with each thrust. Sweat or some other fluid coated her face and body, dripping down in rivulets across her back. She had apparently been used like this for quite some time; her arms were barely supporting her, driving her breasts and face into the ground with each thrust of the Phalangist. Her olive skin was bloodless white where the militant gripped her waist with a crushing grip.

Hobeika turned to David. "I hope this isn't too 'detailed' for you. I know how you Israelis love your plausible deniability."

David rolled his eyes. The Phalange were notorious for this game and the IDF was not unwilling to take part in it. During the last few weeks in Beirut plenty of Palestinian "loot" was smuggled into the barracks at the soldiers' leisure. David had even enjoyed one of them. When it came down to it, the Palestinians were merely things.

"Are there others?"

"Yes, of course. But we have to wait."

"Why?"

Hobeika pointed at the Phalangist in the middle of the room. "He has the key." He shrugged.

The militant continued his assault on the woman, his thrusts continuing unabated. His pelvis slammed into hers with a violent fury, throwing and jerking her young body like a doll. She attempted feebly to push herself up with her hands, but failed. Her body was too weak and the sensations too powerful. A cracked voice escaped her lips. "Please... stop."

The militant stopped. As the girl was about to sigh with relief, he pulled his full length out and slammed it back into her. Her back arched abruptly, a yelp escaping her lips. He then did it again. And again. Her breasts flailed about her chest as her back spasmed. "No, god no, please..."

The Phalangist grinned and with one of his hands, grabbed her hair and pulled her face up to his. She winced as he brought his lips close to her ear. David could see him whispering something into her ear.

"Yes... yes I want to stop. Please," she said weakly in response to whatever he said.

He whispered more into her ear. Her eyes widened, with shock or disgust David could not tell. "No, no, please I can't do that."

In response the militant pushed her head back to the ground and resumed his rutting inside her. The girl let out a cry. "I'll do it! I'll do it!"

The Phalangist once again pulled her hair up, this time to face the others that were standing at the side of the room. "Khalil," she said, her voice half a whisper. A militant that had been polishing his gun looked up. "Please... please fuck me in... my mouth."

Khalil grinned. Cupping his ear, he said. "What was that? I can't quite hear you, slut."

Another sharp thrust into her was all the encouragement she needed. "KHALIL!" she yelled, her eyes shut tightly. "PLEASE FUCK ME IN MY MOUTH."

Khalil rose and walked towards her, unbuttoning his pants as he did. He grabbed her hair with one hand and pushed his exposed cock into her open mouth. As she gagged, the man behind her began to fuck her again, with a newfound vigor. She was thrown between the two cocks, Khalil's rough hands using her head as he willed. Her eyes remained shut, trying to block out the situation all around her. Khalil's cock began to glisten with her saliva, some of which escaped down her lips and her chin. Her rear invader's pace began to quicken. He began to pull her ass towards him at a faster rate, his pelvis wildly pumping into her.

He began to grunt as his climax came upon him. Her hips were thrown back and forth with blinding speed as his seed shot into her. She screamed at the sensation of the fluid entering her body. Then, unexpectedly the man reached around her legs and felt for something between them. Her eyes shot open as his hands forced their way onto her clitoris, sending her into climax. Her ass pumped against him outside of her own volition, pumping the last of his seed from his cock. He removed his cock from inside of her, finally releasing his grip from her waist. Her knees buckled immediately, her body sprawled on her side.

But Khalil was not done with her. His hands were still in control of her head, forcing her into an awkward position. Her body lay completely still apart from his fucking her of her face, her arms limp at her sides. Finally his body spasmed and he thrust his full length into her, hitting the back of her throat. He grunted as he emptied himself into her, his hands tight on her hair. He released her abruptly, her torso drooping to the ground. Her sex intermittently spasmed, pushing globs of semen out of her and onto her thighs. Semen escaped her mouth, dripping white down her chin and onto her neck. Her sweat-coated breasts heaved slightly with her shallow breath.

David turned to Hobeika. "How many of them are there?"

Hobeika shrugged. "20, maybe 30. All over 18, ripe for the picking." He grinned. "Weren't you wondering why all the pretty girls were missing?"

"We're going to need them. All of them." Hobeika scowled and began to protest, but David cut him off. "You've had your fun. You're done here."

Hobeika sighed melodramatically. "Take take take. Boulos." The Phalangist that had finished with the girl was buttoning up his pants and wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Take a unit and escort the women to the Kuwaiti embassy across the town. Our Jew friends deserve to share in the winnings, no?" Boulos nodded.

Khalil half carried half dragged the unconscious Palestinian girl to a hidden door, apparently stretching to the other shelters where the survivors were being held. David began to move towards the door, but as he did one of the men in his unit cleared his throat. "Sir, permission to speak?"